Transcendent Loyalties: A Novel of the American Revolution

By S. D. Banks

The years 1770 through 1775 witnessed a dramatic spike in the long simmering tensions between King George III and his American colonies, and nowhere was the growing crisis more acute than in Boston. During the course of those five years, Bostonians witnessed and participated in a series of extraordinary events that would not only herald the coming Revolution, but would resonate into the 21st Century. Transcendent Loyalties views those years, from the streets of Boston to the salons of London, from meeting hall to battlefield, through the eyes of Anna Somerset and Daniel Garrett.

Having grown up in the household of her Tory uncle, Anna believes herself to be unwaveringly loyal to the king. Her raffish friend Daniel, on the other hand, is drawn toward the firebrand oratory of Samuel Adams and the vision for the future espoused by the Sons of Liberty. Still in their teens in March of 1770, Anna and Daniel believe they have seen the worst as they witness the horrific moment when a regiment of British Regulars fires into a mob of Boston's citizens. Anna and Daniel cannot know how much more they will experience and endure over the course of the next five years, or that their journey to adulthood will culminate at the bloody fight for control of a hilltop known as Bunker Hill. Nor can they imagine that their journey will be made more perilous by an unsuspected enemy whose jealousy, hatred, and ambition has become all-consuming.

For them both, it is a time for making hard choices: A time for deciding who they are. A time for deciding what they want to be. A time for deciding which of their loyalties transcends all others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483576060

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The handful of years prior to 1770 had been plagued with unrest among American colonial factions who felt abused by the king’s many new trade and taxation policies. For many Bostonians, that discontent reached a watershed moment on the evening of March 5, 1770.

The city, simmering with irritation for weeks now over its occupation by British Regulars, had been particularly unsettled most of that day. In and of itself, the fact that troops were there to police Boston’s citizens was inflammatory. But soldiers looking to supplement their meager army pay were competing for local jobs and, given that the soldiers had another source of income, they were willing to work for lower wages. The uneven competition for jobs only served to add fuel to the smoldering disgruntlement. Townsfolk murmured in small groups on street corners and in shops, the talk in taverns grew brazen and full of bold threats, and every slight or insult was cause for exaggerated reaction from both sides.

Earlier in the day, an altercation between one of the Regulars and a local boy over some small insult had fomented a spike in the building tension. Tightly knotted gangs began to roam the streets, shouting angry protests against the presence of the troops and against the king’s policies in general. For the most part, the small clusters of protesters tended to dissipate of their own accord. Encouraged by a handful of loud, opinionated men, others would quickly fill the void, however. In time, some of the gangs melded into larger mobs that took on lives and energy of their own. Anticipating an eruption of violence, many merchants shuttered their shops early, and cautious citizens retreated to the safety of home.

But not all.

1770

CHAPTER ONE

Stealing through her uncle’s back gate into the dark, narrow alley, Anna shifted her shoulders in a feeble attempt to improve the fit of the ragged clothes that were her disguise. At age thirteen, her ability to pass herself off as a boy should have been an annoyance. In Anna’s mind, however, such things were of little importance.

She shivered. Boston was a mere five days into March, with spring seeming a distant prospect and, though a good disguise, her grubby, ill-used coat and breeches were no match for the biting cold. The frigid night air was pungent with the smoke that rose from the city’s many chimneys where it languished, doggedly hovering above the rooftops to conjure images of the warm hearth waiting back in her bedroom. More than once she considered abandoning her quest to return home to clean clothes and a warm bed. The lure of adventure and pull of curiosity won out, however, exhorting her forward through snow already well-trampled by a multitude of footprints. The mobs were out in force, it seemed.

The hour was well after nine-o’clock when Anna scurried down the hill from her uncle’s prosperous neighborhood. She slowed as she skirted the Common and turned east onto Tremont Street. Its darkness punctuated by guttering light from oil lamps placed at the occasional gatepost, the street was deserted now, a marked contrast to how it had been only minutes before. A palpable sense of tension hung in the air, and she heard troubled voices raised in anger somewhere in the distance. The sound of conflict, unmistakable in its timbre, echoed through the otherwise quiet streets and alleys, bouncing off cold brick walls and muffled by snow drifts in such a way that made its point of origin unclear.

Anna’s breath quickened and heart raced as she brashly continued on her course, wary of every shadow, alert to every sound. So cold was her nose that she was forced to breathe through her mouth, and she could see puffs of steam in front of her face each time she exhaled. She turned onto King Street and found herself closer to the shouts and commotion. It seemed likely that the trail would take her to the Custom House. The regimental pay chests were housed there, and she’d heard whispered fears that the dissidents had designs upon the place. Her steps faltered momentarily. What would she do if she arrived to find a mob plundering the Custom House?

A great clamor of rattling muskets, boots pounding out a quick march on the ground, and shouted commands rumbled up the street behind her. She ducked into the shadows just in time to allow a file of red-coated troops hurry past. Wishing she could become invisible, she pulled her battered hat lower on her head and sank as far as she could manage into the feeble concealment of the shadow. She counted seven British Regulars hurrying past without so much as a glance in her direction, and flinched when the eighth man, their more alert commander, caught sight of her. He jerked his head back in the direction from which they had come in a gesture meant to send her away.

Move along there, lad, he ordered. There’s trouble brewing here that you’ve no need to be part of.

She nodded, but did not look up, afraid of revealing her identity. The man’s face was a familiar one, for Captain Thomas Preston was well known in Boston. She hung back for a few seconds before, in careless disregard of the captain’s order, ducking into an alley she knew would take her more directly toward King Street than the route the Regulars followed. Keeping to the shadows, she scuttled along, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, the cold now all but forgotten. Whatever was happening, to have drawn the troops from their billets, it had to hold excitement.

Suddenly, the bells of a nearby church erupted into the alarm for fire, startling her. Summoned by the alarm, people began to stream into the street and she found herself swept up into a prodigious, roiling crowd. The crowd poured into King Street, whereupon they became part of an even larger mob, tense, and milling uncertainly, all of their venomous energy focused on the lone sentry standing guard in front of the Custom House.

The mob screamed at the sentry, yelling taunts and insults, hurling snowballs, and pressing ever closer to the solitary young man. He pointed his bayonet-spiked musket at his tormentors with all the assuredness drilled into him during his time in the king’s army, but his eyes revealed an inexperienced youth on the verge of panic. And not without reason, Anna thought, for the mood of the crowd was ugly and apparently bent on harm.

Fire, damn you, fire! someone yelled. Bloody lobster-back. You dare not fire!

He cannot fire, a man near her said to no one in particular. Not without orders, and such orders won’t come. He was sneering, sure of the peculiar vulnerability of the young soldier. Damned musket isn’t even loaded.

To Anna, whether or not the musket could fire seemed rather irrelevant in the face of the lethal bayonet fixed to its barrel. Making her way through the crowd, she heard snatches of comments here and there offered as explanation for the outraged assemblage.

Bastard bloodied young Garrick, one man told another. He jerked his head in the direction of the sentry. Took offense over some harmless jest and hit the poor lad on the side of the head with the butt of his musket, he did. Just like that! Hurt ‘im bad. The outraged man spat in the snow to emphasize his point, barely missing Anna. Ah! Sorry, he said, genially slapping her on the back. Didn’t see you there, lad.

Anna pulled her hat down and moved on, listening. Knocked a boy down and beat him something terrible, she heard another man say. Just like all these Regulars; thinks he can abuse us because he wears the king’s uniform! The last words were said more loudly, and were obliquely directed at the young sentry. Bloody lobster-back coward! the angry man called. Afraid now? Afraid now that you be facing grown men instead of helpless boys?

Anna had no doubt that the sentry was afraid. Her uncle had told her more than once that fear often made a man dangerous, and so she began to retreat, edging her way toward the back of a crowd that had grown noticeably thicker in the passage of only a few minutes. Townsfolk who had arrived full of tension at the expectation that they would be fighting a fire swelled the ranks of the crowd until, Anna guessed, there had to be at least four-hundred overly-agitated people assembled in the street. Though tense, most of them seemed peaceful. A handful was not, however, and that handful was determined to drive events. More snowballs and chunks of ice flew toward the young sentry who was clearly struggling not to flinch, not to give in to his fear.

Finally, the sentry’s reinforcements arrived and overwhelming relief suffused his face. Six privates, led by a corporal and followed closely by Captain Preston, filed decisively through the crowd. Momentarily quieted by the arrival of the troops, the crowd gaped as the Regulars formed a defensive line in front of the Custom House. The soldiers’ movements were precise and practiced, a machine-like reflection of their hours of drill. At a sharp command from their corporal, the Regulars loaded their muskets with two lead balls each. Then, at another command, the muskets were leveled at the crowd, which collectively took one cautious step back. Captain Preston took up position with his men, quietly speaking words designed to calm them, steady them, help them hold to their discipline.

The heartbeat of silence was broken by the advance of a huge mulatto man. Anna had seen him about and knew his name was Crispus Attucks, but that was all she knew about the man. Brandishing a club, Attucks took a step toward the Regulars, daring them to fire at him. Come on you rascals, you bloody scoundrels, you lobster-backs!

Others followed his lead, waving clubs and even a cutlass or two. Fire if you dare. We know you dare not! More snowballs sailed through the air, along with chunks of ice and rocks. Wide-eyed, Anna took another step backward. Her sensible inner voice urged her away, but she could not quite compel herself to leave, for the scene unfolding before her was too enthralling, too incredible to abandon. A wave of unease rippled through the mob but, perhaps for the same reason that Anna remained rooted in place, few heeded the sense of danger.

A group of merchant seamen arrived. Full of loud exhortations, they pummeled the Regulars with sharp-edged oyster shells and threatened them with firewood brandished like clubs. Kill them! Knock them down! the rowdy, ill-humored seamen urged.

Fire! someone on the far side of the crowd shouted.

No! another man called. Anna recognized the rumbling voice of Henry Knox. His bookshop was a favorite of hers, and knowing that the level-headed merchant was present calmed her. Captain Preston, Knox begged, you must not give the order to fire! I implore you! He turned to urge the crowd to disperse but was forestalled by yet more shouts of fire! erupting here and there across the crowd.

Anna watched Captain Preston. He stood firm, as did his men, impassive in the face of the onslaught. There was no suggestion of any intent to order his men to fire. Instead, his lips were pressed into a tight, thin line of determination.

Fire, damn you! Fire if you dare! The taunt was repeated over and again. Fire!

Someone — and, not surprisingly, no one could later say who exactly had done it — clubbed one of the Regulars on the head, knocking him to the ground. Bleeding from the scalp wound, the infuriated young private regained his feet just as someone was shouting fire. The private fired his musket directly at Attucks.

The single shot triggered an entire volley that slashed the night with fire and a thunderous roar, and engulfed the scene in a pall of smoke.

Cease fire! Captain Preston ordered, Stop firing! But his voice was drowned by the musket fire. Cease fire! he demanded again as his troops began to reload. He stepped forward, bellowing the order again and again. The Regulars finished reloading their muskets and brought them up to firing position but did not fire. Preston had finally made himself heard.

A blanket of smoke enveloped all but the farthest reaches of the crowd, and the overpowering, sulphurous stench of spent gunpowder fouled the air. Like most of the spectators, Anna stood frozen in place, momentarily stunned by what had happened. A few seconds, then a few more, and the smoke began to waft away, unveiling a scene horrible beyond Anna’s imagination. Eleven men, Attucks among them, were sprawled on the snow in dark, spreading pools of their own blood. Some were moving, writhing in agony. At least four men were lying in the motionless, unnatural awkwardness of violent death. Paralyzed by shock, Anna gaped at them, unable to move to offer aid to the fallen, nor to turn and flee.

It all seemed to happen with eerie, uncanny slowness, and yet she knew only a few moments had passed since that first musket shot had shattered the night. Cries and screams began to penetrate Anna’s consciousness, and she was buffeted by people suddenly frantic to be away from the scene. The confused, retreating mob flowed past, making her feel disoriented and filling her with a rising sense of panic. Seemingly from nowhere, a child appeared before her, crying and alone, and at risk of being trampled. Anna scooped the toddler up and out of harm’s way, only to have her immediately snatched away again by a woman who was apparently the child’s mother.

As the woman seized the child from Anna’s arms, Anna stumbled and fell. In vain, she tried time and again to get to her feet. Too small to be noticed by men in panicked flight, she was repeatedly knocked back to the ground where she was in certain danger of being kicked and trodden upon by the frenzied mob. After several more futile attempts to get to her feet, she curled her small body into a ball and covered her head with her arms, hoping to ride out the crushing wave.

She wailed with pain when a boot struck her hard on the back and again when someone stepped brutally upon her ankle. Then, with a suddenness that robbed her of breath, a hand reached down and grabbed a fistful of her jacket, wrenching her to her feet. Come along, a male voice ordered, and she was dragged toward the safer fringes of the fleeing crowd.

With the tall, strong man pulling her along, they were able to get clear of the crowd. But, even when they’d reached relative safety, he did not stop or release her. Alarmed, she tried with steadily increasing determination to resist his pull until, all else having failed, she simply picked up her feet. The unexpectedness of the action and the sudden shift of her weight toppled them both to the ground. Quickly, Anna scrambled up and managed one step toward freedom before the man’s iron grip caught at her ankle. With an angry cry, she swung her free leg around and kicked him in the groin with as much force as she could manage. The man groaned and doubled up, but did not release her. She was prepared to repeat the blow when a familiar, albeit pain-tinged voice halted her.

Hello to you, too, Mouse.

Anna froze in place, and then bent to look at the man’s face. Daniel? Though contorted with pain, the lean face with its halo of black hair was startling in its unexpected familiarity.

Is that the way you thank a friend for saving your troublesome little hide? he asked through gritted teeth.

"Daniel?" she repeated, her tone more an accusation than a question.

Yes. His voice was strained as he labored to his feet. He wiped his hands together to remove the ice and grit. You little brat. Why did you kick me?

How was I supposed to know it was you? she demanded, angrily planting her hands on her hips. Why didn’t you let go of me? What in heaven’s name are you doing here, anyway? Oh, wait. She folded her arms across her small chest and narrowed her eyes. "There was trouble. Of course you’re here."

Blinking in disbelief, he stared at her. She was wearing a hat, jacket, and breeches apparently obtained from some street urchin who was likely better off without them. "I think the question should be what are you doing here? And, what in blazes are you wearing? He brushed disgustedly at the faded wool of her tattered jacket. Does your uncle know you’re here?"

Of course not, she snapped. I—

Her words were cut off when a small band of men stumbled past, full of angry oaths as they staggered under the weight of the wounded compatriot they were attempting to help to safety. In the distance, Daniel and Anna heard orders being barked out and the unmistakable sounds of troops on the move.

Come along, Daniel demanded, tugging at her jacket and drawing her with him before she could protest. We can’t be here if the Regulars come. The devil knows what other damage they might do tonight.

They ran, stumbling often, Daniel pulling at her arm to the point of occasionally lifting her off the ground in an effort to help her keep up with his longer stride. It seemed to Anna that their course was in the general direction of her uncle’s house. The route was not wholly familiar to her, however, interwoven as it was by shortcuts through narrow lanes and back alleys. Shouts and shadows followed close on their heels, though how much of a threat they represented was unclear. Neither of them wanted to linger to find out.

On they ran until Anna was breathless. A sharp pain in her side begged her to stop and double over to soothe it, but she did not give in to the urge. Her childhood memories were punctuated by failed attempts to tag along after Daniel and his friends, trying desperately to be included in their fun and mischief, constantly excluded because she was too young, too small, or simply because she was a girl. Even now, childish pride filled her with a fierce determination to keep pace with him. Constantly steering a course that took them away from sounds of other people, they skidded along slick alleys and jumped across ice-crusted puddles

Just as she hopped over the tiny rivulet of filthy water that streamed out of one alley, Anna’s attention was caught by the sound of a man calling out in distress from somewhere in the dark space between the buildings. Pulling back against Daniel, she paused to squint into the darkness. Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dim light until she could just make out the shapes of three men standing in a group over a fourth, who was on the ground. It took a moment for her mind to comprehend that the man on the ground was being attacked.

Daniel, having witnessed the same scene, hesitated as though he might intervene. A glance down at Anna changed his mind, however, and he drew her onward. But another cry for help stopped him. Anna heard him swear under his breath. Stay here, he ordered, unceremoniously shoving her into the shelter of a door stoop. Do not move from here, and keep out of sight. Do you understand? His tone was urgent, too insistent to be debated.

Wide-eyed, she nodded, and watched in astonishment as he made to return to the alley. Daniel! she hissed. There are three of them. You can’t go in there alone! I should—

You will remain here as I instructed, he barked, pushing her back against the door. Then, before she could say more, he disappeared down the alley.

Anna flattened herself against the wall, afraid of being seen, and edged along until she could peer around the corner of the building. She could make out Daniel’s tall silhouette, boldly striding toward the group of men, none of whom had noticed his approach.

Without breaking stride, Daniel snatched up a stray board from a pile of rubbish, and brandishing it like a club, launched himself at the first of the unsuspecting men. Entirely without preamble, Daniel struck the man on the head with his improvised weapon, astonishing Anna. The single blow knocked the man flat on his back where he lay, motionless, in a stream of filthy slush. The victim of the gang’s assault, an older man, struggled to his feet. He wavered a moment as though he wanted to assist in his own defense, but Daniel urged him away. Anna watched the poor man stagger off down the alley.

Now, the second of the three thugs rounded angrily upon Daniel, assailing him with a string of expletives. Undaunted, Daniel grabbed a handful of the man’s coat and violently shoved him back against the brick wall, pinning him there with an uncompromisingly firm grip. Heated words were exchanged, punctuated more than once by Daniel thumping the man’s head back against the bricks.

Finally, the third man, who was larger than all the rest, intervened. To Anna’s surprise, he did not attack Daniel. Instead, muttering something that made Daniel relax his grip, the big man reached around and took hold of his companion, forcefully dragging him from the alley. Daniel watched them go before bending to rouse the man he had knocked to the ground and roughly sending him on his groggy way.

Anna ducked back around the corner just as Daniel turned to leave the scene of the altercation. He emerged from the alley and, without even a glance in her direction, grasped her elbow and began again to lead her down the street.

He said not a word for the several long minutes it took to reach the back gate at her uncle’s house. Daniel lifted the latch and pulled the high, heavy gate open wide enough to admit them. The hinges creaked softly, and the two remained motionless for a moment until assured there would be no response from within the darkened house. He led Anna to the foot of the porch steps and swung her around to face him. The moon had emerged, and he could just make out her features. Though she had done a good job of disguising her appearance, the wide, amber-tinged brown eyes were unmistakably Anna’s. He’d always been amused by her — challenged by her, if he had to admit it. She was far too outspoken and too much the tomboy, yet she was full of intelligence and a sense of adventure.

But, for now, all he had for her was anger. You still don’t listen, Mouse.

Stop calling me that.

I told you to stay out of sight and, there you were, lurking at the corner like some gawking child at the carnival.

I was doing no such thing! She shook off his grip on her arm and drew herself up defensively. What if you’d needed help?

A little thing like you? Help? He snorted in derision. Far more likely that you’d have become yet another victim for me to protect.

Who was that man?

I have no idea.

And yet, you risked a great deal to defend him? She cocked her head, brows drawn together as if she were trying to solve a puzzle.

He hesitated a beat and his eyes sparked. Of course I helped him. Why should that surprise you?

She shrugged, but said nothing.

Twisting his mouth with distaste, Daniel flicked his fingers at her battered hat. What’s all this about, then? What are you doing gadding about dressed as a boy? And what business do you have being out so late at night?

I needed to go out, she huffed. Under the circumstances, it seemed much safer for people to think I was a boy. And, even were that not the case, I certainly couldn’t go out in a fashion where I’d be recognized. My uncle would surely hear of it, and I think he’d not be amused.

No doubt.

She responded to his sarcastic tone with a mincing look and folded her arms across her chest. Daniel had always been able to intimidate others merely by looking down the knife-edge of his nose at them, his blue eyes frigid in their stare, but Anna refused to be cowed. She glared up at him just as hard as he was glaring down at her and felt a small triumph when he looked away first.

Explain, he insisted again. Why did you need to go out? Why were you at the Custom House?

I intended to go to Faneuil Hall. I understood there was going to be a speech by that man — Samuel Adams. I wanted to hear what was said.

There was no meeting and no speeches tonight.

She snorted. No. Obviously Mr. Adams was too busy stirring up trouble. And don’t try to deny that he was behind that horror.

As far as I know, Mr. Adams wasn’t even there.

Even so, he was there in spirit. My uncle says Samuel Adams is a middle-aged man who has never grown up and has never quite succeeded at anything worthwhile. He seems to be making a roaring success of rabble-rousing, however. In that pursuit, I’d say he has found his calling! I’ve no doubt that he is somehow to blame for the whole thing.

I’d say that the troops who occupy our streets and take our jobs and abuse our citizenry carry more of the blame.

The Regulars wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the mischief you and your friends get up to. And stop treating me as though I’ve done something wrong, she added indignantly. I have as much right as anyone to be out — to know what is happening in Boston.

Read the broadsheets. One corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk but, after a moment’s consideration, the flicker of amusement was replaced by skepticism. So, you wanted to hear Mr. Adams speak? Do you mean to tell me that you’re considering becoming a Patriot?

Don’t be ridiculous, she snapped. And don’t use such a noble-sounding word to describe that rabble. They’re not patriots. They’re a bunch of malcontents at best, and a pack of treasonous criminals at worst.

He chuckled. Or so says your uncle, anyway, I’m guessing.

Of course that’s what my uncle says. My uncle is loyal to his king and country, as am I. She jutted her chin forward, full of pride and self-assurance, as though she truly believed that her small chin could withstand any attack.

And yet, you want to hear what Mr. Adams has to say? Or, did you merely want to see if he has a tail and horns?

Of course not, you ninny. I want to know for myself what is being said and done. I’m tired of relying on crumbs of information dropped by my uncle and his friends. She drew herself up into a defiant posture. I want to see for myself.

Yes, well, that way of thinking got you into trouble when you were six-years-old, and it’s going to get you into bigger trouble now that you’re, what? Ten?

She narrowed her eyes at him. You know perfectly well that I am thirteen. I’m only four years younger than you, Daniel Garrett, she retorted hotly. So, I think you have no call to treat me like a child.

Now he laughed outright. You are a child, Mouse. He skimmed her hat from her head and ruffled her dark, ginger-infused hair.

I told you to stop calling me that. She snatched the hat back from him and reached up to smooth her hair. I’m not a mouse. You’ve always called me that, and I’ve always hated it, so stop!

A little brown mouse of a child who should be safely abed in her uncle’s house, not out at night wandering the Boston streets, he said, ignoring her infuriation. Now, inside with you, and no more of this foolishness.

I’ll go inside when I’m ready, she insisted tersely. Tell me what you were doing at the Custom House.

The same thing as you, apparently.

She huffed. More likely, you were there to abuse that poor soldier. I know well enough the things you and your friends have been up to.

Do you, now? Seriousness replaced his cavalier manner, and he leaned down so that his face was close to hers. If you know so much, he said quietly, then you know that the protests are serious business, and you know that you should be nowhere near any of it. Now, get inside, and promise me you’ll not be larking about like this again. Otherwise, I’ll ensure that your uncle finds out what you’ve been about tonight.

She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, something in his mien quelling the rejoinder she had planned. Very well, she chirped amiably. I promise. On one condition.

Exasperation rumbled up from his chest into his voice. I should not be surprised, he grumbled. "But, no. I’ll hear of no conditions."

If my uncle finds out I’ve been out tonight, he’ll be cross with me, and he’ll forbid me from such adventures in the future. His anger will pass, though, and little will be any different than it would if I simply made the promise you seek. However, I would prefer to avoid the unpleasantness, if possible.

Your uncle should have taken a rod to you more often, he growled.

My uncle never took a rod to me. Indignation filled her voice and inflated her posture.

Exactly. And look where that neglect of his duty has led.

Save your poor wit for someone dull enough to appreciate it. Do you want to hear the bargain I’m proposing, or not?

He considered a moment, reluctantly curious to learn what condition she might try to impose. I do not, but I suspect I’ve little choice if I’m to get the assurance I want. So, under what condition will you promise no further escapades?

You must promise that, if your new friends plan any violence against my uncle or his property, you will warn me ahead of time so that I can conspire to keep him out of harm’s way.

He laughed. Are you a spy for the redcoats, now?

Don’t be ridiculous, she huffed. I won’t do or say anything that would cause the authorities to become involved. It’s not my intent to set up an ambush. I merely want to be able to ensure my uncle’s personal safety. He’s convinced that he’s safe simply because he’s not one of the king’s officials.

And he is probably correct.

Can you guarantee that the protests will only be directed at the king’s officials? Are you absolutely certain that these mobs will not decide to turn their attention to the property of a Loyalist merchant?

He shook his head. No, I can’t guarantee that. There are too many disparate elements involved. Nor can I guarantee I’ll know in advance what any one of them will do.

Where there is trouble, Daniel, particularly of the violent kind, you always seem to be close by.

It was a painful barb that hit its mark. You are sometimes excruciatingly direct, Mouse. He wiped one hand down his face in irritation. Alright, he said after some consideration. I agree. I think it’s an unrealistic request but, if it will elicit your promise that you’ll go on no further adventures like tonight, then I’ll agree.

Very good. She nodded curtly and stuck out her hand. I promise then, also. No more adventures like tonight.

Skeptical, he stared at the proffered hand for a long moment before reluctantly extending his own. They sealed their agreement with a hand shake, then he shooed her up the steps toward her uncle’s back door. Inside with you, Mouse.

He watched her climb the steps. She was right, he knew, about his being only three years her senior; and yet, to look at her, one would have guessed the gap in their ages to be far wider. She’d been quite convincing in her disguise. He knew of no other girls, even among those as young as Anna, who could pass themselves off as a boy, and he thought that it probably did not even occur to her to be chagrined at her own ability to do so. He liked that about her, the lack of self-conscious vanity.

Daniel. She paused on the top step and turned to look down at him curiously. Why did you ask me to make the promise? Why do you care what I do?

My mother raised me to look after the weak and foolish, he said, shrugging dismissively.

She ignored the insult. There are a good many things your mother tried to teach you, Daniel Garrett, most of which you pointedly ignored.

I never ignored the lessons that suited me. He flashed a roguish grin. Now, inside with you. He watched her until she had disappeared into the house then, silently letting himself back out through the gate, went off in search of three ruffians with whom he intended to finish an inharmonious discussion.

*      *      *

Making his way back across Boston — from the respectable street on which Anna and her uncle lived to the seamier streets near the waterfront — Daniel reached the docks. Hat pulled low to hide his face from the clusters of men who gathered here and there, he passed men playing games of chance on the damp pavement, and others huddled about glowing braziers for warmth. All of them seemed uneasy and restless. He moved among them without greeting or acknowledgement and, with caution, approached a squalid, tumbledown building at the far end of the waterfront.

The evening’s events, and particularly his encounter with Anna, had replayed in his mind as he crossed Boston. Now, he pushed all of it into a closet and shut the door. That clearing of his mind, the elimination of all extraneous thought, was necessary to survival. It was a lesson he had learned when only a young boy, and it had become instinctive with him. Boston’s wharves tended to attract the toughest sort, many of them predatory in nature. These men were not afraid of violence, and were ever-vigilant for an opportunity to enrich themselves. The public house he sought was something of a refuge in this wilderness, kept as respectable as a waterfront public house could be by the diligent effort of its wizened proprietor.

The building stood stoically facing the harbor, its wood planks weathered and decayed by the sea air. It looked, as it had for longer than anyone could recall, as though it might collapse at any moment. But Daniel knew that was an illusion. Like many of the salty, gnarled denizens of Boston’s docks and warehouses, it was deceptively sturdy and resilient, reflective of a hard life of challenges met and overcome. The tavern on the ground floor had served two generations of seamen and fishermen, and the rooms upstairs were rented to those same men, some of them less reputable than others. It was in one of those rooms that Daniel expected to find Teague Bradley and Drummond Fisackerly, for his two friends had long made the place home.

Inside the tavern, the stifling air reeked of stale alcohol and pungent, unwashed men. Daniel paused to allow his eyes a moment to adjust to the pale light given off by hissing oil lamps. The usual crowd of men huddled at the tables or warmed themselves at the fire, mugs cradled protectively in work-worn hands, their conversations kept unusually low. He suspected that the subdued atmosphere had something to do with the evening’s events at the Custom House. These men, like others all over Boston, felt themselves increasingly under threat and were, therefore, mistrustful of any unknown ears around them. Catching snatches of conversation along the way, he crossed the room toward the owner of the establishment. The man, whom everyone called Withers as though it was the only name he possessed, looked up from the dented mug he was wiping and smiled crookedly in greeting.

Are they here? Daniel leaned close to the old man and kept his voice low.

Withers nodded and jerked his head toward the stairs. Been here only a few minutes, he said quietly. No doubt, they were part of that trouble tonight. He gave Daniel a weighted look.

No doubt, Daniel replied. He knew the old man wanted more details, gossip, or any bit of the sort of information that was the stuff of his stock and trade. But on this night, Daniel felt disinclined to conversation. With a quick parting smile, he climbed the sharply-angled wooden stairs that led to the rooms above.

He approached the door slowly, knowing his two friends would be waiting for him and that their welcome was not likely to be warm. Pausing at the door to knock only once, he did not wait for a response but let himself in as had always been his habit. Though he did not live here, he had spent enough time in this room with Teague and Drum to feel he was more than a mere visitor. Teague, his back to the door, stood staring out the small, discolored window, one arm braced against the frame. It was a pose, deliberate in its attempt to appear relaxed, but radiating desperate unhappiness instead. Teague did not speak, nor did he turn to face Daniel.

Drum sat on a chair that seemed fragile under his enormous frame. Drummond Fisackerly, Drum to his friends, was not fat, but his proportions were massive. He easily stood more than a head taller than just about any other man, and his strong, broad shoulders and arms dwarfed them all. If not for the fact that he unendingly exuded a kind of innocent openness, he would have been a fearsome sight. But with his fair hair, pale, china blue eyes, and freckle-dusted face, his countenance bordered on angelic. He looked up now, his eager face full of a mixture of anticipation and dread, like a child who fears he is about to be reprimanded and is eager to please. It made Daniel’s heart ache, and he felt even angrier at Teague as a result.

Daniel allowed the door to slam shut behind him, and took a bit of pleasure in the fact that it visibly startled Teague. What the hell do you think you were doing out there tonight? Daniel’s voice, harsh and accusatory, cut across the room like an arrow leveled directly at Teague.

But Teague had prepared for this fight. He whirled to face Daniel, his eyes dark, glittering black holes in his face. You sorry bit of hog slurry, he spat. What gives you the right to barge in here like this or to talk to me that way? Just who do you think you are? His dark hair stood out around his head as though he’d been raking his hands through it.

I’m your friend, Daniel snapped. A friend who does not want to see you in trouble. Now, I shall ask again. Why were you assaulting that man in the alley?

You have no right to say anything about it, and you had no business stopping us.

Daniel gaped incredulously. As a citizen of Boston, it is most definitely my business to stop an assault on a helpless man. And when the thugs are people I consider friends, it becomes even more my business.

A ‘citizen of Boston.’ Listen to you! Mr. Citizen of Boston. Sneering, he scoured Daniel with cold eyes. That man was a Tory, Teague snapped. A bloody, king-loving Tory! You should be thanking us for attacking him.

And when did it become acceptable for us to physically attack and rob a man simply because his politics differ from ours?

Now it was Teague’s turn to register incredulity. Oh, and aren’t you the fine one now! It was you who dragged us into this in the first place. You were the one who was so enthralled with Sam Adams and his lot.

I got us involved in the cause they stand for, Daniel corrected. Beating a man and stealing his purse are not part of it. And do not try to tell me that you attacked that man because he’s a Tory. You do these things for your own personal gain. What you’re doing is wrong, and you know it. If you can’t understand the morality of it, I’d at least think you would acknowledge that it’s illegal.

Teague laughed. You are such a bloody hypocrite! Everything Adams and the rest of you do is illegal! You’d best not be judging me.

And you cannot see the difference between what we do and the things you do?

No, Teague insisted, still laughing derisively, I cannot. And I’m certainly no hypocrite. I don’t pick and choose the laws I obey like you and your new friends do. I don’t follow whatever authority appeals to me at the moment. I’ve no use for any of it, equally!

Dejection sank like a stone into Daniel’s stomach. I thought better of you. I thought you could understand the difference between the actions of the Sons of Liberty and the actions of a common thief.

Oh, for Chrissake! Do you hear yourself? I need money, Daniel, he snarled angrily. Drum and I need something to live on. We can’t run home to mummy when we get tired or hungry.

I work for my living, Teague. Daniel narrowed his eyes. The notion that, no matter what, Daniel had a mother and home to which he could return had long been a sore point for Teague, and Daniel was weary of it. And I thought we agreed that you would work for yours as well.

No. You decided. Like you always do, you expected us to fall into line without question. You seem to think that, just because you issue an order, we’ll follow it. We’re not yours to order about.

It was not an order, Daniel said, his voice frayed and impatient. It was …, he swept his hand in a gesture meant to demonstrate something he could not put into words. There was some truth to Teague’s accusation that Daniel had changed paths without consulting either of them regarding their feelings on the matter. The two of them had for many years followed his lead, and it had not occurred to him that they might do otherwise in this. Now that Teague seemed reluctant to do so, Daniel was not quite sure what to think or how to cope with it.

Watching Teague and Daniel, Drum fidgeted uncomfortably. He did not like it when they were angry with each other, when they quarreled. They were the two people he cared most for in the world, and he was pretty sure they were the only two who cared for him, and he could not bear for them to be at odds with each other. Lately, they seemed to be angry with each other more often than not. It seemed to Drum that it had started when Daniel began to insist that Teague limit himself to honest work and when he had begun attending his very secretive meetings. Drum had gone with him to one such meeting and had not understood a thing about it except that everyone seemed to be unhappy with a man named George.

I do not take orders from you, Teague repeated through gritted teeth. I’ll do as I please and you can go to hell.

Very well. Daniel was tired — far too tired to deal with Teague’s obstinacy. Do as you please, he said resignedly. But you’ll not drag Drum along with you. You’ll not drag him along with you to the stocks, or whipping post, or worse.

Drum can decide for himself what he wants to do.

He follows whatever you do, Teague. He has no idea— He cut short his own words as he looked at Drum’s face. He could not say aloud what was going through his mind, that Drum had no notion of the consequences of their actions. It wasn’t that he was stupid. Certainly he was capable of learning. But he was slow, and it seemed as though the part of his mind that dealt in abstracts did not exist. For Drum, everything was concrete and literal. Drum did not understand everything that happened in the world, but he did understand when his deficiencies were being remarked upon, and he was always deeply wounded by those remarks. You are correct, Daniel said, fixing his simple, trusting friend in his gaze. Drum can decide for himself what he wants to do.

Drum looked from one young man to the other. He liked Teague, but he loved and respected Daniel. Teague could be cruel at times, teasing Drum in ways he did not fully understand but felt hurt by, nonetheless. Daniel was always patient with Drum’s slowness and was never cruel. Drum frowned with the effort of sorting out his thoughts. I don’t want to do anything that’s wrong. He spoke slowly, more distinctly than most people, as though he stopped to consider each word before he said it. I want to be good. Eyes full of despair, face questioning, he looked up at Daniel. He had made the same statement so many times to his father in what seemed like another lifetime, but it had made no difference. His father had discarded him. He was desperate that Daniel and Teague not do the same thing.

I know you want to be good. Daniel’s manner became gentle. Do you think it was a good thing to beat that man? Do you think it’s a good thing to steal from people?

But Teague said th—

Don’t think about what Teague said. The words sounded sharper than he had intended and caused Drum to recoil. Daniel stepped back and paused for two beats before continuing. Is that how you’d want to be treated?

Drum shook his head. No. He hung his head and seemed suddenly to be overly-interested in the fraying hem of his coat. His face had reddened all the way up to the top of his scalp.

Then, no more of this, all right?

Drum nodded his agreement.

That’s very well and fine, Teague scoffed. How’s he to pay his share of our rent? How’s he to pay for his share of our food?

He can stay with me, Daniel declared.

I can work. Drum’s voice was full of pride. The men down at the warehouses. They pay me to help them move crates and things off the ships.

Teague rolled his eyes. Well, you go right ahead, then, you gull. Work until your back breaks for a few small coins.

Drum frowned and looked up at Daniel. Will my back break?

No, Drum. Daniel tried not to laugh. Not really. Teague just means that you’ll have to work very hard. It may make you tired and sore.

That made Drum laugh. I never get tired and sore, he boasted. And I like to work hard. I like moving the crates. It’s something I’m good at.

You’re good at many things, Daniel assured him with a chuckle.

Watching Daniel draw Drum away from him, Teague began to regret his intransigency. His hot-headed tendency to act without thinking had kept him in trouble most of his life, and it seemed that Daniel had always been there to get him out again. Now, as he sensed his friend drifting away, he felt anxious. Alone was not something Teague Bradley wanted to be.

You make too much of this, he told Daniel, brushing aside their disagreement with a wave of his hand. I thought the idea was to harass the Tories any way we could. How could I know you’d object to me fattening my purse a bit in the process? That’s all it was. If it matters so much to you, I’ll stop.

Daniel eyed him narrowly, not completely convinced. The idea is to put pressure on the king and the Parliament to hear our concerns, he corrected. Not to commit assault and robbery.

Teague snorted with derision. Tell that to the officials whose offices have been closed or who’ve had their persons threatened by the Sons of Liberty.

I never said I condone everything they do. All I can do is try to be part of the rational element, not the more radical.

Teague shrugged. Daniel had begun talking that way more often lately, and he did not care for it. It made him feel as left behind by Daniel’s thoughts as he did by Daniel’s actions. It makes no difference to me either way. If you want us to walk the straight-and-narrow, so be it. There’s no need for you to be so high-handed about it.

Then, I apologize for my high-handedness.

And, I apologize for my harsh words. Teague bowed dramatically, inadvertently undermining his attempt to appear sincere. We’ve been friends too long, Daniel, to quarrel over something so trivial.

Daniel was not sure he considered the matter trivial but nodded his assent anyway. It was far easier to allow himself to be mollified than it would be to walk away from their years of friendship. And, though he had doubts about the sincerity of Teague’s promise to stop his illicit behavior, he knew that the promise was far more likely to be honored if he kept Teague close.

Good. Teague grinned in the disarming manner that was his specialty. And now, I think you should buy us a mug or two downstairs. Withers has missed us, I’m sure. He swaggered toward the door as though enormously pleased with himself. I’ll just say, he added as he opened the door, that you picked a damned inconvenient time to grow a conscience. There’s a lot of profit to be made from discord. He shrugged off the censorious look Daniel leveled upon him and sauntered out the door.

*      *      *

A little over a week had passed since Anna’s brush with disaster at the Custom House and, to her annoyance, she had heard little discussion on the matter from her uncle, John Wilton. She wanted to know of the aftermath and what was being said about the cause of the incident, and was frustrated that her uncle remained steadfastly tight-lipped on the subject. The newspapers were of some help, but she suspected that the talk in the taverns and coffee houses would be far more interesting and revealing, and it was those conversations she was eager to hear repeated.

Wilton’s friend, William Sprague, with whom he frequently argued over political matters, had not visited in his habitual way since that night, and her uncle seemed disinclined to discuss the event with anyone else. She had watched her uncle read the newspapers and broadsheets, then pace and fidget as he digested all that he had read. Many of Boston’s printers were in league with the Sons of Liberty, meaning that the Loyalist viewpoint was only carried by a precious few. The disparity made it difficult for men like John Wilton who would have preferred that at least some fair representation of the Loyalist viewpoint be heard. He felt overwhelmed by the vitriolic opposition propaganda that was flooding Boston.

Anna watched her uncle worriedly. John Wilton was a small man with a timid appearance that belied the inner strength and vitality that had helped him achieve success in Boston. Despite his advanced years, his posture was firmly upright and his eyes bright. A short bristle of grey hair covered his round head — a head that only rarely sported a wig. He was a thoughtful man with a quiet, gentle nature. His face was furrowed by time and toils but, from behind the round lenses of his spectacles, his eyes usually sparkled as though he anticipated something new and exciting at any moment. Now, under the burden of recent events, that sparkle was much diminished. It battered Anna’s heart to see him so deflated in spirit, for she loved him dearly.

Days later, Mr. Sprague finally did come to call. Latching onto the first opportunity she could find to attend the two men, Anna intercepted the maid on her way to serve their tea, offering to carry the tray in for her. She knew it for what it was — a shameless bid for the chance to eavesdrop — but she straightened her shoulders and went forward, nonetheless. As was often the case when they were together, the two men were arguing in the controlled way of old friends, their voices audible before even she opened the parlor door.

Sprague was speaking as she entered the room, his voice low and solemn, and she paused to listen.

If you think about it, John, this is not so new. Not too long ago, you may recall, the Crown and Parliament decided that our cheap labor and the trade imbalance created by our rather impressive productivity was injuring England’s economy. They were quick to imposed regulations and, like frogs in a pot of boiling water, we were content to keep swimming until it finally dawned upon us that we were being cooked alive. At that point, we were certainly passionate in our protest, and you did not stay out of the fray, if memory serves. He cocked one eyebrow, challenging Wilton to deny the good natured charge.

That was different. This quarrelling over representation and the rest of it — this is self-indulgent nattering about points of principle. Her uncle’s voice sounded unusually gruff. They make too much of it and it begins to threaten our livelihoods!

You may recall that a civil war was once fought on English soil over what were largely matters of principle.

Are you suggesting that this could escalate into a civil war?

If events continue on their present course, I think it is possible.

Wilton harrumphed and shrugged off Sprague’s statement.

It’s a different world, John, Sprague persisted. And it’s changing rapidly. Especially here in these colonies. Sprague worked to compose his words into a gentle dance around his friend’s strained emotions. Ever since the Stamp Act, there has been something stirring here, something just under the surface that bubbles along and keeps things perpetually unsettled.

Yes! These mobs of malcontents! They keep things perpetually unsettled!

Sprague frowned at the deliberate misconstruction of his words.

England is a rock that will stand forever, Wilton insisted, grudgingly returning to Sprague’s point. She will weather this storm as she has so many other storms over the years.

Perhaps, Sprague agreed. But she may have to bend a little if she is not to be broken by this particular storm.

Bah.

Anna crossed the room, her feet silent on the carpet, holding the tray carefully before her so as not to rattle the china. Fragile spring sunlight found its way into the room through the rippled window glass, casting a soft illumination where it fell. The warmth of the room was welcoming, as was the rich fragrance of pipe tobacco and leather that hung softly in the air. Her uncle and Mr. Sprague sat in matching chairs facing the fire, a small tea table between them. Both men stretched their legs toward the hearth, but Sprague’s feet were deriving more benefit than those of Anna’s uncle for Sprague had several inches in height on Wilton. Sprague sported a horsehair wig complete with two stylishly requisite rolls over each ear and a short queue at the back. Anna guessed that the wig was uncomfortably prickly because it was slightly askew from Sprague’s frequent efforts to scratch his scalp.

The two men continued their conversation without pause, for neither had heard her enter the room. Their attention and their conversation seemed to center on the crumpled copy of the Boston Gazette and Country Journal William Sprague held in his hand. This younger generation does not see things as we once did, Sprague said with a thump of the Gazette for emphasis. For us, it was all hard work and trying to survive; trying to carve out our place in the world. Now, our children are building on the foundation we laid. They enjoy the luxury of not having to spend their every waking moment working just to remain solvent. They have time to read the philosophers and to discuss what they consider enlightened ideas.

And they reward us for that bequest by spending their time fomenting dissent, trying to turn it all on its head and destroy what we built, Wilton asserted. He started slightly when he realized it was his niece who carried in the tray. Why, Anna! You came in so quietly. I apologize for not noticing you.

She smiled and set the tray on the table between the two men. I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation. That was true enough, she thought, though it had not been manners, but curiosity that had softened her step. She held her hand over the teapot, one eyebrow arched in silent question as to whether or not she should pour.

Reacting to Anna’s sudden presence, Mr. Sprague grinned broadly and, putting aside the Gazette, jumped to his feet to execute a small bow. Miss Somerset. He adopted an exaggerated formality that made her giggle. Good day to you.

Sprague radiated an energetic joviality that made him seem far younger than his years. Friends and acquaintances chuckled behind their hands about the paradox of his sunny disposition, for they knew him to be a man much put upon by his domineering wife and spoiled daughters, a man who would have been fully justified had he chosen to adopt a perpetually cloudy outlook. In fact, because of the lack of domestic tranquility, Sprague spent as many of his waking hours as possible away from his house. He had an elaborate and extensive circuit of friends, business interests, and taverns, all of which he visited routinely in his quest for absence from home and hearth. John Wilton’s parlor was his destination two afternoons each week. It was an arrangement Anna’s uncle encouraged, for Sprague was a particular friend.

And good day to you, Mr. Sprague, she replied as she bobbed her best curtsey. William Sprague had played this game with her for as long as she could remember, greeting her as he might the finest of ladies. It had made her giggle when she was a precocious five-year-old and continued to do so even now. Only when he had regained his seat and his face was once again illuminated by the fire did she realize that there was a sizeable bruised lump on his forehead and several scratches on his cheek. She gawked at the sight.

It’s nothing, he insisted, brushing aside her apparent concern. An unpleasant encounter with some young hooligans Monday evening before last, that’s all.

Her face reddened as she remembered the assault Daniel had interrupted. But, you are quite recovered now? She busied herself with pouring the tea and would not meet his gaze.

Oh, yes. Fortunately, I was rescued by an anonymous good Samaritan. He gingerly touched two fingers to the lump on his forehead. It looked like a pigeon’s egg had lodged under his skin, which was turning a peculiar shade of greenish purple. Young fools apparently thought I had silver on me, he chuckled. "Had they known how my wife and daughters customarily empty my pockets before I ever leave the house, the foolish ruffians would not